Finding My Reality
by piccMu51c
Summary: set pre-season one. Hoyt's trial approaches and Jane is sent on a special assignment. Mob wars erupt in Boston, and Jane's tenuous hold on her emotions test her closest relationships. Meanwhile, Maura deals with the social and personal ramifications of her failed engagement to Garrett Fairfield, and her growing attraction for a certain detective.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: set pre-season one. Hoyt's trial approaches and Jane is sent on a special assignment with huge implications. Mob wars erupt in Boston, a displaced soldier comes home, and Jane's tenuous hold on her emotions test her closest relationships. Meanwhile, Maura deals with the social and personal ramifications of her failed engagement to Garrett Fairfield, and her growing attraction for a certain detective.

This original story is a sequel to _Rising Above Myself_. The goal is to continue the plotlines left open in that story, hopefully with tighter writing and faster updates, as well as to give a spin on the origins of the tension within the Irish mob that foreshadow the events in the TV series.

All copyrighted/trademarked media is owned by their respective companies/creators. I earn no money from uploaded content.

Finding My Reality

Chapter 1

Bright red pushpins littered the dining table, rolling and clattering together across the smooth wood finish, the shiny painted dye of the plastic pieces catching the light and bending it. A framed map laid spread in the center, the length of one edge hanging off the side by several inches. Jane Rizzoli stood hunched over it, a hand to either side. Only one pin remained.

Dark eyes focused on the bloody red marker standing out against the 2D plane of the city, rooted into the cork backing. It represented a god-forsaken shack in a forgotten field, many miles from her South Boston apartment, where the Surgeon kept his final victims. The memories had not lost their power, even after six months.

In one week, she would appear in court and give her testimony before a jury in the State of Massachusetts v Charles W. Hoyt. The outcome was all but guaranteed. The Boston Police Department, along with the Medical Examiner's Office, had more than enough evidence to condemn him to a life sentence. The defense would make short statements without saying anything of import and no one would bother to listen. Still, protocol required her to be there.

Jane was no stranger to the witness stand as a homicide detective, but this was different. The prosecution needed a human element, a face for an emotional jury to latch onto. And who better to play the role, than a survivor? Instead of standing with the Department, the Lieutenant, and a partner, she had to face Hoyt as a woman, a victim, a casualty tallied among the long list of his sins, damaged and alone.

She bowed her head, clenching her fingers on the table until her knuckles turned white, and the scars stood raised against the center of each mutilated hand. If the attorneys wanted a teary, moving account, they underestimated her.

The voice of the department psychotherapist came to mind unbidden, reminding her over and over again that anger is always indicative of a stronger, underlying emotion, like fear, because it offers feelings of control. The tone morphed into the soft cadence of her colleague and best friend, Dr. Maura Isles, who once gave her a lecture on how anthropology teaches that the evolution of the human species selects for cooperation rather than angry confrontations, with higher thresholds for aggression and no biological mechanisms to control it as other primates do. Like baboons…or something. Jane remembered because one of her many examples was that, in law enforcement as well as the military, individuals do not benefit from being enraged than if cool, calm, and thinking things through as they act.

_Yeah, right._ She wrapped herself in it, preferring the empowering rage. Jane refused to be crippled by fear again.

She tore free the last pin. It felt as if a great weight had cracked in two and rolled off her shoulders, making it easier to breath. The map that had dominated the space for years ripped. To Jane, the tearing sound was an affirmation of recovery. This time next week, she and the families of Hoyt's victims would have the closure they needed at last.

The annoying chimes of her ringtone startled her out of her reflection. Without checking the display, she answered with an automatic, "Rizzoli."

"Shot alert in Roxbury. Beat cops and CSI are already there," a coarse voice barked over the speaker with a wet, rumbling cough that signaled years of heavy smoking. Jane recognized the Chief of Police, wondering why he was calling instead of Lieutenant Cavanaugh.

"Has anyone notified Dr. Isles?" she ran a hand through her hair, mentally cursing her luck. She always seemed to be the one on-call when people kill each other in the middle of the night.

"No, a body hasn't been found, yet. But I want a detective at the site, someone trained for critical observation. Take your badge, but go in plainclothes. Contact any informants you have in the area, but don't draw any unnecessary attention to yourself. You're my eyes and ears, Rizzoli. Report directly to me."

It was more than a little odd, but she held back her questions, intrigued. If the chief's suspicions warranted secrecy, she wanted to know why. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Jane arrived just after 2:00am, parking several blocks down and making her way into the crowd surrounding the square perimeter of crime scene tape that blocked off half the street. Police took up stations at the surrounding intersections, directing traffic away from the site. Dressed casually in jeans and an oversized jacket with the hood drawn up, she slipped in among the spectators, moving as close to the center as she dared.

Jane was not known for her skill in subtly when force and intimidation better served her purpose, but not for lack of it. Rather, Jane's persona was intentional, using all her strength, determination, and intensity to make a place for herself in the department as a female detective among something of a boy's club. However, with the right clothes and posture, she could blend in seamlessly in most any situation. If she were good enough, her fellow officers would never know she was there.

Head down, she kept an ear on the conversations and whispers around her, and took in the scene. She recognized one of the CSI techs, an impressively fit man she knew only as Mick. He gave a low whistle as he took pictures, careful to step around the blood pooled on the pavement, the camera flash lighting the area in short bursts. Splatter from the shot extended up the wall of a pub called Hartigan's. If the vic wasn't already dead, they didn't have long.

She left them to it, shuffling along with the assembled civilians, while another CSI dug the bullet out of the brick. Jane wasn't here to process the scene, but to poke around for information. Several cops were already taking witness statements, though it didn't take long to figure out that no one here actually had anything useful to contribute. The street was almost empty when the shot was fired, and most were inside the pub, enjoying one last drink after a long day before shuffling home.

"And then I heard them drive off, that quick!"

"Could you describe the vehicle, sir? Did you see it at all?"

"Sure, yeah…yeah, it was an SUV. Black, I think."

"Nah man, it was blue, for sure."

It amazed her, the way the mind constructed memories. These routine interviews would just serve to clutter the case file. So far, nothing seemed out of place. Someone was shot, a terrible incident, but not enough to drag her out in the middle of the night. She wondered what had tipped off the chief.

Jane ducked under the awning of the pub near the entrance to an alley. Looking drunk was easy. She moved at a lethargic pace to slouch against the corner, hands in her pockets, resting the back of her head against the wall to survey the upper floors of the surrounding buildings. The windows reflected red and blue by turns from the revolving lights of a squad car.

A silhouette of a person came into view. Jane squinted up at the third floor, trying to make out any of their features. She counted six similar windows from the tenement across the street and the office building to the right, open with someone watching from each. She could clearly make out one observer, directly across from her on the first floor. Interested bystanders were to be expected, but this guy looked almost bored, arms crossed as he leaned against the sill. His head was shaved, and under his left eye was a tattoo of an anchor.

His gaze swept over the scene, passing right over her. She followed his eyes to the roof above her, turning and craning her neck, not bothering to look inconspicuous. Nothing. Jane tried to shake it off, but her curiosity was piqued.

The alleyway was unlit and she nearly tripped on an overturned garbage can as she made her way toward Hartigan's back door. It was locked, but she didn't consider that an insurmountable problem. In moments of confusion with lots of people, there was always a way.

Checking that her badge was hidden under her jacket, and her service weapon secure in her shoulder holster, she threw off the hood and pinched color into her cheeks, unfocusing her eyes before pounding on the door. A young man opened it. He was a twenty something kid, bartending his way through school Jane guessed by his t-shirt. On it was a picture of a little cartoon Simba from _The Lion King_ with a pink breast cancer awareness ribbon, and above that read: Alpha Tau Omega supports Hakuna Ma Ta Tas.

She gave him her most bewildered expression, quirked up an eyebrow and caught herself on the doorframe. "You're not Phil," Jane slurred, laying on a thick accent.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he muttered, assuming she was a patron and pulling her into the back room, "Come on, I'll call you a cab." She did her best to look disoriented and sick while the frat guy went to get a phone, taking note of the staircase to her right, and darting up it as soon as he was out of sight.

After four flights, she exited onto the flat roof of the building, bracing herself against the door and drawing her handgun. She didn't know what she expected, but it was clear, no movement visible in the dim reach of the streetlights below. A fluttering sound reached her, like a baseball card clipped to a spinning bike wheel, or a poster caught and whipping in the wind as she approached the edge overlooking the crime scene. CSI was already cleaning up. Hartigan's would be open again by morning.

All the windows were empty, too much of a coincidence to safely ignore. Who were they, and why were they watching the scene? Was there a connection at all? Jane located the source of the fluttering, and knelt down on one knee. It was a photograph stuck to the ledge. Jane used the end of her sleeve to pull out whatever kept the photo from blowing away.

The blade of a short knife emerged from a crack in the mortar. Maybe there was something going on here after all, she thought, ill at ease, tucking it away, and considering the picture. It was too dark to make out the image, and Jane wished she had thought to bring a penlight.

She straightened and slipped the photo into her back pocket just as the frat guy thundered up the stairs.

"What do you think you're doing? Please step away from the ledge, ma'am." Jane could only imagine what conclusions he had drawn, suppressing a laugh.

* * *

Maura Isles stood in front of Jane's door promptly at 6:00am, waiting for the detective to answer her knock. She heard the sound of two locks and a dead bolt sliding free before it swung open to reveal Jane, half dressed with wet hair.

"Why are you dressed for work?" She asked, tilting her head to one side.

"Because I'm going to pick up some cash for my meeting with a contact in two hours," Jane stepped aside for Maura to enter, in the middle of fastening her belt, the bronze badge flashing at her hip, "Shit, I'm sorry. Can I get a rain check on our run?"

Disappointed, but curious, Maura deposited her bag by the door under the coat rack and moved towards the couch, her new Asics making little to no sound on the hardwood floor. She noticed Jane's eyes lingered on the definition in her legs, taking no small pride in the way she caught herself starring before following.

"Sure, you're working. But, I would stress the importance of proper training if we're going to run the marathon next year." Jane waved her off, coming to sit next to her. "Is there a case?"

"Yeah, get this, I was called out by the chief last night to snoop around a crime scene. Something's weird about it, though. Besides that they haven't found a body," Jane paused, and Maura watched her worry her lower lip with her teeth, lost in thought.

"Hey," she twisted to face her, "how well do you know the forensics people in the crime lab?"

"Not very," she admitted, "but they recognize me, and wouldn't question my presence."

"Good," Jane proceeded, her thoughts spilling over one another, "Maybe you can do me a favor. If you could look over the ballistic report on the bullet and DNA tests from the blood, I can run this," she indicated a photograph on the coffee table," through facial recognition, and hopefully catch a lead from my guy in Roxbury."

Maura enjoyed watching the speed of Jane's mind at work. She talked with her hands, a rare occurrence when she was distracted enough to not consciously hide them from view. "I'll see what I can find out," she said with alacrity.

Jane met her gaze smiling, "Thanks. With all your random expertise, I trust your opinion more than some bored lab technician," she pulled her hair over her shoulder and rubbed at her eyes, "And I haven't slept. It's going to be a long week."

It was a solemn reminder of the upcoming trial. Maura had not told Jane that she would be in attendance, representing Dr. Tierney, who retired after that case. She didn't know why she hesitated, continuing to wrestle with the decision at the date crept closer. It was a subject better left unspoken among the homicide unit, Jane in particular.

She decided to test the waters, so to speak. "How was your appointment with the therapist yesterday?" To her surprise, Jane responded openly.

"We've started EMDR. Before the next session, I have to decide on an image that represents the target event…being _that_ day," she couldn't hide a shiver, or the darkness that shadowed her eyes.

"What did you choose?" Maura asked softly.

"A scalpel."

Maura concentrated on the blank television across the room, not sure how to respond. She remembered with guilt one of her first conversations with Jane in the morgue, how she had reacted to the instrument in her hand. Even now, she rarely ventured down, and refused to come near when Maura was in the middle of performing an autopsy. She had never been ashamed of her profession and its morbidity before she had learned the details of Jane's ordeal with the Surgeon.

"I can see how that would have a negative connotation," she tried to keep her voice smooth.

"See, that's the thing," Jane bent over, her arms crossed over herself, resting on her knees, "There has to be a positive association, too."

At Maura's puzzled expression, she offered her a bashful grin and reached for her hand.

"You."


	2. Chapter 2

The park was cool, caught between the seasons. Shadows danced on paved walkways, shaded from the pale morning sun by limbs of trees that still clung to the growth of late summer as autumn approached, spreading over Maura's path as she completed her circuit. A light wind stirred the leaves and lawn, causing the glisten of dew on blades of grass to ripple in waves of color.

She made her goal in good time, but thought that if Jane were with her, the workout would be more effective. With her long legs and athletic build, Maura was hard put to keep up with the detective, pushing her body to new limits again and again over the course of their training. That is, once Jane finally woke up and committed to an early run, usually after several miles. It was invigorating, yet peaceful. She cherished any time spent with Jane that lacked the nervous energy of a case, any urgency or stress.

Maura finished her solitary route through the empty park, appreciating the opportunity to lose herself in the motion of running, of air passing through her lungs, muscles burning as her feet pounded lightly on the pavement. For a brief time, she was able to still her thoughts, and escape a little from anxieties and pressures that beset her conscious mind.

The moment passed as she entered her home. In the shower, reality crashed back into her like the water cascading down her back.

Death awaited her at the station. Maura faced it every day, that inevitable force, the culmination of humanity's greatest fear.

Teaching at U.C. San Francisco, and the past months spent practicing as Chief Medical Examiner couldn't be more different. The people given into her care were not cadavers, purposed for research, but real victims, testaments to the stark violence that colored the criminal underworld of Boston, ganglands she had only been aware of as a tangential blur on the evening news growing up, ever in the periphery of her life until now.

Dr. Ashford Tierney, her predecessor, once told her that his career, in its entirety, "has been a constant affirmation of the fragile good in men, and the ease with which it is broken." With a soft smile that didn't reach his steel grey eyes, he had shook her hand, wished her well, and left for Logan International to catch a direct flight to his home of Atlanta, Georgia. It was indeed a humbling experience, to stand before a victim and know that through some conflict of circumstance, another person was responsible for every cut and gash, every contusion, every fractured piece of bone she measured, recorded, and added into her report.

Jane referred to their killers as monsters, and she tended to agree.

It was a trying job, one that she excelled at to an extent that her coworkers found disconcerting, earning her the dark moniker, Queen of the Dead, and the morgue was her domain. She was of two minds herself concerning her career as of late.

After she had called off her engagement to Garrett Fairfield, Maura found herself at odds with certain prominent members of her class, including her parents. He was a fine man, a tender lover, but was mired in a class system to which she no longer adhered, one of power, money, and family, in that order. He enjoyed it, thrived in it, and probably didn't know any different. Truly, the thought of sacrificing her individual agency to become his wife, resigned at playing ancient elite games of intrigue and deception, choked her. She had thought the decision to end the relationship had been a mutual agreement. She had been a naive fool.

The resulting debacle had fueled her flight across the country, shamed and humiliated, in search of purpose. In San Francisco, she created meaning and self worth for herself. She had become a doctor out of a passion to help people, and she found her affirmation that year teaching at the university. But even there Maura didn't feel at peace. She needed to believe her work was worthwhile.

The opportunities afforded her had led her back to Boston, and to a punishing mindset surrounded by death. The detectives thought her overly clinical and cold. Maura figured that persona for a coping mechanism.

Only Jane knew better. Jane, with her own darkness and relentless drive, didn't hesitate to seek out her help, wasn't afraid to call her out when she was distant, and always made an effort to include her, helping her through a social structure she wasn't yet accustomed to, accepting her many quirks along the way. Their friendship was invaluable.

Maura felt heat rising in her face at the memory of stealing a kiss after a night of drinking at the Robber. Perhaps she needed more than friendship at this stage in her life, but she wouldn't sacrifice a single weekend with Jane for a date.

The doorbell sounded as Maura was applying makeup, going about her normal morning routine before work. Barefoot, she entered the hall in a black silk robe, stepping past the great monolith of her pet tortoise, Bass, to peek out at her unexpected visitor.

Constance Isles stood on the step, in all her immaculate splendor. Maura hurried to the open the door, shocked by her mother's unprompted appearance. Several weeks had passed since they last spoke via telephone, much less in person.

"My God, darling, do you often greet your guests fresh from the bath?" Stunned speechless, Maura moved aside to let her through, drawing the edges of her robe tight together.

"Hello, mother," she said softly, following behind, "I'm afraid you caught me in the middle of getting ready for work." She didn't quite apologize.

"Of course," Constance swept through the hall, owning any space she set foot in without any effort, "Don't let me keep you from that," her gaze passed over Maura with disapproval as she took a seat for herself at the island counter of the kitchen.

With as much dignity as she could muster in a bathrobe, Maura rounded the counter to start a carafe of coffee before calmly returning to her bedroom, even though everything in her wanted to dart out of sight. Embarrassed, she dressed quickly. Maura wasn't used to feeling vulnerable in her own home.

Upon reentering the kitchen, Constance gave her a proper greeting with kisses to both cheeks, "Much better."

Maura smiled politely, and moved to retrieve two cups to serve the coffee that steamed on the counter, the scent filling the room. "I take it you're on your way to the airport?" she said softly, unable to think of another reason her mother might be visiting so early.

"Indeed," Constance hummed, taking a delicate sip, all grace and perfect poise, "I'll be in Paris for a few days, and thought I would pop in for a minute." Maura highly doubted it was that simple.

"Everyone missed you at Diana's dinner party last week. It's terribly impolite to refuse her, especially if you want to get past last year's…absence," her tone never changed, a decorous lilt touched with the slightest of accents.

Maura met her gaze evenly, wrapping her fingers around her cup, appreciating its warmth. "I wasn't invited," she said coolly.

The older woman's only reaction was a soft pursing of her lips, "Then this is more serious than I thought." Honestly, Maura didn't care one way or the other. She didn't belong, and she wasn't offended in the least.

"You should know," Constance continued, "that I was made aware of a certain rumor that's apparently been floating around for some time, concerning Garrett's and your falling out."

Maura fought the urge to roll her eyes, "And?"

"Is it true that Ian was visiting, here, the week prior to the announcement?" Her expression was soft as ever, but her eyes were hard, boring into Maura.

"Yes," she answered without thinking, suppressing an indignant gasp when the insinuation became clear. She stood slowly, drawing herself up to her full height, and shook off her intimidation. "I did not cheat."

Constance considered her daughter for a long moment, as if weighing her words when she knew Maura would never lie to her. "Okay," she set her cup down and reached for her purse, "My apologies, dear, but I wanted to hear it from you."

Warring between anger and gratitude to her mother for actually believing her, Maura tried to imagine how Jane, always quick with her temper, would have reacted to such an accusation. Instead, she showed Constance out, wishing her a lovely trip, exchanging small pleasantries and smiles, giving her what she expected. There were other ways to be strong.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Any and all comments/feedback, both positive and negative, are always appreciated. Cheers, -Picc.


	3. Chapter 3

Welcome back, dear readers. Please remember that this is a direct sequel to my previous story, _Rising Above Myself_. You don't have to read it, but it would probably be helpful, especially in future chapters.

* * *

Chapter 3

Jane once met an informant under the southeast expressway, but tracking down the location and whispering in the middle of the night with the smell of smoke all around was needlessly dramatic, and put Jane in a vulnerable state of isolation. She wouldn't dare venture out there at night in a uniform. It was like asking for a switchblade between the shoulders.

Pierce had much better taste, in her opinion. After a quick trip to the bank, they met for breakfast at a popular bistro on the corner of a busy intersection at the peak of the morning rush hour. Sure, it was more conspicuous to be seen talking to a detective in such a public place, but it was also safer to be part of the crowd. She watched him tuck into a hearty plate piled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. For a scrawny bastard, he had an impressive appetite.

"Listen, it may not look like much on the surface, but trust me, you don't want to get involved," he said around a mouthful of food.

Before she could respond, a waitress came to refill their coffee. Jane waited patiently, relaxed back into her corner of the booth with her hands in her pockets. As the waitress moved on to the next group, Jane leaned forward, arms braced on the table, and fixed Pierce with a stare.

"You're scared."

"Damn right," his gaunt features darkened, "And you should be, too."

Jane sighed. "If you not gonna talk, I want my money back."

He didn't even hesitate, grabbing the bills from his pocket and throwing them down in front of her with a slap. Jane went from suspicious to alarmed, a chill coursing through her despite the warmth of the coffee and the patron racket surrounding them.

A pro at blackmail, Pierce navigated the slums like a wrath, absorbing rumors and devastating secrets, and never left anything solid enough for an arrest warrant. In many ways, he could have made a great undercover cop. She needed to know whatever had him so spooked. Sliding an entire month worth of rent over the table between them, she tried again.

"I know you've been kicked out of your place by-," she fished for a tactful way to describe the recently convicted drug lord that paid Pierce for information on suppliers, buyers, competition, and everyone else besides, "…your boss, and that you need a good meal and warm bed tonight more than I do. You've got to give me something to work with."

He sat there staring at the money for a moment, long fingers wrapped around the restaurant's white china coffee mug.

"Okay, but only because you're the closest thing I have to a friend right now." Empty sea-green eyes focused on hers, and Jane felt genuinely sorry for the guy. "There's a rumor going around that Tom O'Rourke is on the move."

"O'Rourke, like the Irish mob?"

He nodded. "Four of the five families are involved so far. O'Donnell, Flanagan, Donegal – the streets are a mess of blood in the outer districts. I don't know what set it all off, but according to my source in the harbor, O'Rourke is on a rampage after last night." His hands were trembling.

"So someone _was_ murdered last night?" Jane's head was spinning.

With a pained expression, Pierce slid the money back to her and half-stood, scared out of his mind. "I really can't. I'm sorry I ever agreed to meet up-"

"And I'm starting to think that this," she cut him off before he could leave and laid out the photo from the previous night, "wasn't meant for us." Anything to keep him talking.

A young woman smiled up at them from the glossy finish. Hazel eyes flashed deep green in the lights of the camera, long brown hair curling around her shoulders. The slit from the knife split her neck.

Pierce looked almost angry as he faced Jane, like he wanted to shake her. "You'd be right. These are clans of family-soldiers, and they take care of their own. This isn't a job for the police."

"Do you recognize her?" Jane wasn't backing down.

"Sure," he said, exasperated, "That's O'Rourke's daughter."

Jane stood and straightened her jacket. She swiped the cash, left a twenty on the table for the bill, and tucked the rest into the breast pocket of Pierce's coat. _And I wonder why my fridge is always empty_, she thought to herself. To Pierce she only said, "Get out of Boston. Lay low and find a real job. If you need anything, you have my number."

Pierce wouldn't look her in the eye, too beaten for pride but not soft enough for long, flowery expressions of gratitude.

"You're too good, Rizzoli," he said simply.

"I know," Jane smirked and let him pass. A sudden, nagging thought crossed her mind and she turned back. "Hey Pierce, who is the fifth family?"

But he was already gone.

* * *

Jane decided against checking in with Korsak and Frost as she parallel parked in front of the precinct. First, she wanted to get an update from Maura on the crime lab's progress before reporting to the Chief of Police. It was rare that Jane felt this nervous when dealing with the brass. She felt as if she were back in school, called to the principal's office. Did he really expect her to investigate _the mob_? She was in way over her head, and she knew it.

The bright lights of the morgue were comforting, but Jane gave the prepped, steel table a wide berth. She couldn't remember the last time she sat in and observed an autopsy. Catching a glimpse of blonde hair and a white lab coat, she made her way to Maura's office. The M.E. was talking on the phone and judging from her expression, it wasn't a pleasant conversation. Jane tested the locked door, then settled in to wait just outside.

* * *

Frustrated, Maura paced the length of the room as Garrett Fairfield laughed into her ear.

"How am I supposed to control what people say about you, Maura? It's not as if you were exactly discreet about Ian," she could hear the sounds of the marina in the background, the cry of a gull, waves lapping against a hull, a distant bell ringing. She could easily imagine him out on the water, leaning against the gunwale railing and letting the sun beat down on his back.

"Why bring it up now?" his voice was annoyingly casual, even amused, "We both know you never cared for this sort of thing."

"Apparently my mother does. I won't cause her any awkwardness on my account. It will stop," she leaned against her desk, hoping her tone sounded authoritative and final.

"Well I can assure you that the rumors aren't coming from me," there was a long pause, and she started to wonder if he had set the phone down and walked off. "You know, it's good to hear your voice again. I've missed you."

Maura didn't respond. She didn't know how.

Garrett heaved a long sigh. "It's okay, I understand, really. Just… tell me that you loved me. Even the least little bit before it all went south between us. Would you give me that, Maura?"

"I…," she froze. Her heart battered itself against her chest, and her lungs constricted. How unfair of her would it be to tell him the truth, after all this time? She couldn't lie, but she didn't want to be unnecessarily cruel. "I-," Her throat constricted and her lungs burned.

"Right. Goodbye, Dr. Isles." _Click._

Maura let her eyes slip shut, felt tears well and collect there as she let the phone fall. She couldn't breathe.

"You can fill me in later," said a dark, lowly rasping voice. She felt herself being lifted by strong arms. Opening her eyes, Maura found herself seated on the desktop, starring over Jane's shoulder as the other woman reached over to dig through her purse, one arm still around Maura's waist. She heard herself panting softly, each draw for air coming at a wheeze through her swollen throat. Darkness edged her vision, and she took fistfuls of Jane's shirt collar, anything to ground herself against the cold pricking along her skin.

"You really weren't kidding about not being able to lie," Jane eyes as she straightened were so dark as to appear almost black. Maura felt the jab of a needle at her thigh, accompanied by a click that echoed in her ears. Her heart raced, and her whole body shook as the effects of the epinephrine kicked in.

"Look at me." She focused on Jane, tensing and tightening her grip until she was able to take a shallow breath. "Do I need to take you to the hospital?" Jane removed the device and bent the needle against the desk, before covering the injection site with her thumb. Maura felt the muscles in her throat relax, and was able to breathe a little deeper.

"No," it was barely a whisper. She leaned forward to rest in the crook of Jane's neck, exhausted and jittery at the same time. Jane removed her hand from under Maura's dress and just held her, waiting through the adrenaline rush quietly.

"You really must tell me how you did it," Maura's voice was stronger.

"Did what?"

"Broke into my office." Jane's relieved laugh close to her ear caused her to shiver once more.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Maura sat up and wiped her eyes, "No. Honestly, I'd rather focus on something else."

"Okay," but Jane didn't step back, a long moment passing and a heavy silence hung between them. "Right," Jane finally backed away, letting go of Maura as her face filled with color. She cleared her throat, "So, what can you tell me about the shooting last night?"

Dropping down from the desk, Maura stood still while her head cleared. "Well, the ballistic report indicates an unusually high caliber for a single shooting. Hollowpoint, definitely civilian, but bigger and more expensive than anything I usually come across. The weapon would have been hard to conceal."

"They didn't need to. What about the blood?"

"I'm sorry," Maura's voice shook as she continued to tremble, "DNA profiling takes time. And there's nothing to compare it to yet. The victim is female, there's not much else to know, yet."

Jane ran a hand through her hair. "That's what I need to find out. Because whoever died last night was someone important enough to start a mob war."

* * *

Thoughts? Next chapter, we get back to Hoyt. Also, I recently tried to write a one-shot called _Just You_. If you missed it, give it a read and tell me what you think. If not, I'll see you next chapter. Any and all feedback/suggestions are so wonderful. Thanks so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Welcome back! Hope everyone enjoyed season three. In this update, I'm still juggling two or three separate plotlines. I wanted a significant conversation between Korsak and Maura, who don't yet know each other all that well, regarding the upcoming trial. What do they have in common? Jane. This is the result.

In the next few chapters, I'm attempting to make progress with Jane and Maura's relationship…as a relationship. As in romantically speaking. Maybe. So, don't give up on me just yet.

Then…well, that would be spoiling wouldn't it?

Chapter 4

The glass door swinging open caught the fluorescent light and cast a glare onto Det. Barry Frost's computer screen. The words 'Boston Regional Intelligence Center' appeared mirrored backwards from inside the squad room, colloquially dubbed 'the bullpen.' Glancing up, he watched his partner make her way to the desk across from his own.

"You're late," he said by way of greeting.

"Not late," Jane slouched into her chair. Dark hair tumbled messily to her shoulders, contrasting against a white collared shirt. "I just spent an hour in the Chief's office."

He raised an eyebrow, absently clicking through emails. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," she leaned forward, "_We_ caught a case last night. Where's Korsak?" He nodded, indicating the doors behind her.

"So, you finally decided to show up," Korsak smirked as he crossed the room, "Whatever's going on, I'm in."

"Wait," Frost cut in, mildly offended, "Why is he in the loop and I'm not?" Jane didn't have an answer, shooting her former partner a questioning look.

Korsak shrugged, "I may have run into Cavanaugh in the café. He doesn't like you going over his head, but he gave us the go-ahead."

Like she needed his permission. "Hey, he called me, in the middle of the night! What was I supposed to do?"

She held up her hand as if talking into a phone, pitching her voice high, "Sorry sir, please go through the proper chain of command. You can reach my boss at 617-"

Korsak waved her off, laughing, and changed the subject, "So, how do we track these guys with virtually no evidence? The mob, no less."

She liked the way he said 'we,' as in, the three of them. It was always comforting somehow, familiar, to work with Korsak again, even though they were no longer partners. The issue was still largely unresolved between them, but it was also unspoken, and they worked around it with levity and good humor. Jane understood that he was in a transient position, waiting for the inevitable promotion to sergeant in the fall. In the meantime, he inserted himself into Jane and Frost's caseload whenever possible.

Despite everything that happened in the past months, Korsak still believed in her, and Jane found herself needing his support. For a long time, it had been just the two of them against the world, and she wasn't ready to give that up just yet, though she had only herself to blame. She had requested the switch.

"I honestly have no idea," Jane sighed, fishing the photograph out of her pocket and passing it to Frost, "Can you run this through facial recognition?"

"Sure." He rose to place it on a scanner, using one of the two bulky, grey office photocopiers lining the wall. "That came for you this morning," he pointed at a sealed manila folder near Jane's elbow, "It's from the D.A.'s office, I think."

Jane and Korsak's eyes locked, both frozen in place. Looking down, she noted the court date stamped across the label in faded, red post ink. Four months ago, Jane's composure would have shattered at the mere thought of the Surgeon, shutting down entirely. Now she just felt sick, a rolling wave of nausea that burned her throat and heaped tension onto her shoulders, but it was a residual fear instead of a waking terror, fading as quickly as it appeared.

Jane didn't know whether to consider herself a stronger person, or simply too jaded by fear that she was apathetic towards it.

That case had cost her a great deal, more than dignity, and more than a partner. Hoyt was the reason she had three extra locks on her door, and still didn't, couldn't, feel safe. A day had yet to go by when she didn't think about _that_ day, even without Hoyt's trial looming ahead. If she were lucky, she was left with a raw chill and then back to normal. If not, she lost yet another long, sleepless night to pacing around the apartment, going over all the things she could have done different.

Korsak recovered first, moving forward and reaching for the folder. "It's probably just a request for documents. I can take care of it, Jane."

Jane batted his hand away. She didn't want his protection or pity. "No," she snapped, her voice low, expression empty. "No, you don't have to do that."

"Then I will."

They all three turned to find Lieutenant Cavanaugh standing in the doorway. In three strides he was next to the desk holding out a hand. "That's an order, Rizzoli," his usual barking voice was rough as ever, but his eyes were sincere.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Korsak was watching a stream of photographs flickering on the screen, a multitude of faces rushing by. None of them were a match. It made him dizzy, so he turned back to the open file before him. As he turned, he noticed Dr. Isles standing near the desk, waiting to be noticed, impeccably dressed per usual in designer heels and a tight black dress.

"Hey doc, can I help you?" He gestured towards the chair in front of his desk. She moved gracefully, smiling at him and pushing the length of her long hair over her shoulder.

"It's been a productive morning," she said and while her voice was smooth, he noticed that her hands shook slightly before she folded them in her lap, "I thought I might check in. Even without a body, maybe I can help in some way." She smiled.

"Sure. Jane and Frost are making a sweep of the harbor, where O'Rourke tends to run his 'business," his sarcasm was ineffective as he fumbled to quickly close the file. A photo slipped out and fell to the floor.

"I was just-" But Maura was already reaching for the photo, and he sighed in resignation, "…pulling some files for the lieutenant."

She straightened and considered the digital print from a CSI camera. He cursed at himself, knowing what she saw. He remembered the scene with more clarity even than the glass lens.

Cordell and Hoyt were gone, raced to the hospital for surgery. An EMT had to extract Jane before she could be similarly transported. Korsak stayed with her through the entire grueling process, unacknowledged, but there. He doubted she was much aware of anything by that point. She didn't even cry out as the second knife was removed. The medic ran back to the ambulance for something, leaving them for only a moment, and some jerk had caught that moment digitally. It didn't seem right.

He remembered wrapping his coat around her shoulders, repeating useless assurances while she held out her hands, stared down at the hastily wrapped wounds. Now, he watched Maura's eyes darken and fill with tears as she returned it face-down to the desk. It was as heartening as it was heartbreaking to witness that depth of emotion from a usually private person, and for his partner. _Former partner._

"Will you be at the trial?" he asked on a hunch. She nodded slowly.

"Jane doesn't know," Maura met his gaze. There was an edge to her voice, an uncertain pitch.

His brow furrowed in confusion. "Why?"

"I haven't quite resigned myself to it, I guess," she took a deep breath, "Coming face to face with the killer that mutilated my best friend."

Korsak focused on the desktop. He understood the sentiment all too well. And Hoyt was a sick son a bitch. But the important thing was to get Jane through this without isolating her again. She didn't deserve that. "She needs to know she's not alone. She's been… broken."

Maura visibly stiffened. "She's getting better."

"Yeah, she is," he paused as he considered the strength of her tone, the determined optimism. He suppressed a smile. Only a diamond will have any effect on another diamond. He was convinced that this woman was the driving force behind Jane's recovery. "I think we have you to thank for that."

"But I haven't-"

"She needed someone, Maura," Korsak said, purposely dropping the formality and addressing her plainly.

Over the last months, he had watched closely the slow transformation of Det. Rizzoli barreling through case after case with a single-minded determination to prove to herself that everything was back to normal, to the Jane he knew today, without so great a chip on her shoulder. She still lashed out sometimes, and he caught her more than once lost in her own thought, some dark memory, but she also smiled more, and laughed often.

"When none of us could get through, you were that person," he cleared his throat, "So, thank you."

The silence that descended was awkward and heavy, until the computer speakers sounded a beeping notification. A match.

Korsak did a double take. "That's weird." Maura rose to move around the desk, studying the screen from over his shoulder.

"I thought that Jane's informant positively identified the subject as the daughter of one of the mob bosses?"

"He did." It certainly looked like the same woman, but the U.S. Navy uniform threw him. Clicking through a few windows, he found deployment records. "Well, she couldn't be our victim, she hasn't been in the states for 16 months."

"Right then," Maura stood perfectly straight with her hands behind her back. She flashed him a brilliant, if forced, smile, "What can I do?"

Korsak chuckled, "Well, Pierce implied that the shooting last night wasn't the only conflict between the families. But there haven't been any bodies. Yet. Even though this is the mob, these aren't your average thugs, but family members. We were thinking hospitals. Maybe someone died in an E.R. somewhere."

"I haven't been informed of any violent or suspicious deaths." She said, puzzled, head tilted to one side.

"Neither have we. I checked with major crimes, drugs, everybody. So next, we check out the hospital morgue ourselves," he shrugged, "Couldn't hurt."

Maura thought on that for a moment, before turning back to him with a sly smile. "Why wait?"

"Need a warrant. You can't just waltz into Boston General and expect instant access to the freezers."

"I can."

* * *

The records office was crowded and the E.R. chaotic, as expected, but the long underground hall of the hospital's bottom floor was nearly silent as Maura walked towards the morgue's double doors. The effects of the epinephrine shot lingered, and she felt as if she had had entirely too much caffeine, shaking and jittery. The lighting was dim, creating shadows that followed her over the chipped paint of what were once white cinderblock walls. She frowned. Her facilities at the police station were bright and clean. Always.

Watching the nurses and surgeons upstairs rush around, barely stopping to answer her questions, had reminded Maura of her residency - racing to save the life of a stranger, working irregular hours, coming home exhausted but validated in one's self at the end of a day, or three. She supposed that in her own way, she saved lives now too, however indirectly. Her office provided scientific inquiry for the investigation of murders, aided the detectives in their hunt, and gave the law its teeth in court by way of hard evidence.

This however, was simply a place of death, an extension of the building for the temporary storage of the remains of human beings. And like any other meat locker, it was cold.

Putting aside her discomfort, Maura pushed through one of the heavy doors and approached the only attendant she saw with purposeful strides. Her heels clicked on the tile floor, but they also gave her an extra few inches in height, which she intended to use to her advantage.

"Excuse me, I'm Dr. Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner. I need to see every entry to the morgue in the last forty-eight hours and all your logs for the week, please," she addressed the young man calmly, expecting the quick action her authority usually afforded her.

To her surprise, he stayed seated, and he didn't offer his name, just looked her up and down in a way that made her feel underdressed. His greasy black hair was too long, and shone even in the dim light. She noticed a tattoo of an anchor on the inside of his left wrist as he ran his fingers through it.

"All death certificates and the like are kept in the records department on the third floor," he said with a slight accent. "Have a nice day."

She faked a smile, undaunted. "I'm not interested in death certificates, am I? Besides," she sat down her leather briefcase, "that was the first place I looked." Leaving him at his station, she moved further into the morgue, making her way among the racks and freezers, reading the labels.

"Hey, what are you doing?" He rose to follow her.

Maura stopped in front of a black body bag set on the rack. According to the number, it was a teenage girl who had died in a car accident, but the shape of the plastic was much too large and tall for a female youth. Something was definitely wrong. "I work with the police department, Mr…?"

"McCall."

"Mr. McCall. And I'm concerned that certain deceased are not being properly labeled and catalogued here." She returned to her briefcase and opened it. He stood close behind her, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"I'll be sure to look into it. If you'll call tomorrow, I can-"

"There's no reason we can't sort it out now. The paperwork, Mr. McCall." She straightened, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Her patience was wearing thin. Walking back into the main part of the room, she stopped again at the same rack. Unzipping the top of the bag slowly, she was almost unsurprised to discover a man's face, pale and shadowed.

Maura was reaching for her cell phone as she considered the dead man, moments from calling Jane and Korsak, when she suddenly found herself shoved into the freezer door behind her, the solid steel plating cold against her back. She gave a startled cry at the force of the momentum.

McCall caught both of her wrists in one of his hands, extracting the phone from her with the other and pocketing it. From his belt, previously concealed by his white lab coat, he drew a knife.

"You overestimate yourself, Doctor. I don't take orders from you."

* * *

It has come to my attention that I have been nominated for a 'Rizzles Fan Award,' for _Rising Above Myself_, in both the drama/angst and best new author categories. This can only mean, of course, that one of you lovely people put my name in, and I'm so flattered I just can't even...thank you. Thank you, thank you, whoever you are, dear reader. It's unbelievably bizarre and affirming to know that people enjoy what I upload here. If you're interested in nominating and voting for your favorite stories and writers, you can find more information at rizzlesfanawards over at wordpress.

You can also leave a review here. I always greatly appreciate your feedback and thoughts. Thanks for reading!


End file.
